A Midnight Clear

by Kristi Astor

  She bolted upright. “Oh my goodness, I must have mistook the door when returnin—Max?”

  He could tell from the very breathiness of her delivery she lied. Anger flared through him. He took a step toward her. “Did you mean to trap Breedon or was it me all along?”

  “I-I-I went to the necessary. My room is the next one. I m-m-mistook the door. I am ever so sorry.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” he snarled. He turned and paced away from the bed, trying to restrain his anger, his desire and his anguish.

  “The bed is in the same . . . place . . . as in my . . .”

  He made a chopping motion with his hand to end the lie.

  “What happened to Mr. Breedon?” she whispered. He heard her stealthy slide across the bed as if she meant to slink out. He’d stepped between her and the door.

  “He is, I hope, sleeping like a baby in my room.” The excuse he’d given Breedon, that his snores bothered Scully, had been accepted and the rooms changed without a hitch.

  Good God, had she meant to seduce Breedon, to endure his kisses and poking? Did she know what she was asking for?

  “I know this was his room. I saw him leaving it. . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as he slowly turned.

  Her gaze had dropped to his crotch.

  His erection throbbed in his too-tight evening breeches. He strode across the room, slapping the bedpost for emphasis. “Do you understand what a man does when he finds a woman in his bed?”

  Roxana kicked at the covers and dove for the far side of the bed. The jiggle of her breasts as she moved fascinated him. Her foot twisted in the bed linens, and she tumbled to the floor between the bed and the wall.

  He should take her back to her room before any harm was done, but he knew as he stared at the slim white foot tangled in his sheets and at the slender ankle where her nightgown crept up and the silhouette of her form that he could no more take her back to her room than he could raise his brothers from the grave. At this moment he disgusted himself.

  “Do you?” he repeated, hearing the raw emotion in his words.

  She tugged her foot, but it didn’t come free of the sheets. He grabbed it and put one knee on the mattress. “Answer me.”

  She looked back at him, through the curtain of her hair, and he could see her glare. “Yes, I know.”

  God, he hated being tricked and manipulated, but he meant to have her. He wanted every kiss and touch that she would have granted Breedon, and he would make sure she enjoyed every minute of it. “Then you are doing it with me.”

  Warning bells sounded in his head, and he knew the minute he took her, he had committed himself to a course of action he would have found despicable in any other man. She was still an innocent, and her desperation had forced her to a path he could not like.

  “I ought to thrash you,” he said, rubbing his thumb along her instep. He leaned across the bed, reaching to pull her up. “I hate being tricked.”

  But as he leaned over the far side of the bed, Roxana had ducked her head and put her arm across her face. For God’s sake, she cowered like a whipped dog in fear of a beating. How much pressure had been brought to bear on her to force her to this? An urge to protect her and shelter her from all harm overwhelmed him, yet impatience and the desire that burned low in him tore him in a thousand directions.

  “Roxy?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Scully stood outside Fanny’s room, his heart thundering. He cleared his throat and then tapped on the door.

  Fanny cracked her door. Her hand clutched at the neck of her blue dressing gown. At least she did not wear her weeds to bed.

  “Hello, beautiful.” He raised one arm up above his head and leaned against the doorjamb, knowing the stance made his coat hang wide open. He raised a deck of cards in his other hand and flipped over the top card. “Care for a game of piquet?”

  “Scully, I . . .” She stared at the knave of hearts on top of the deck.

  He leaned closer. “Vingt-et-un?” He needed to get in her room.

  Her luminous blue eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to give you your Christmas gift.” He leaned his hand in and brushed his fingers against her cheek. “Let me in, my pretty Fanny.”

  “You can give me my gift tomorrow with all the others.”

  “Oh, I hardly think that would serve, not this gift, anyway.” This afternoon they had been on the verge of reaching an understanding when the shouts from the accident outside had interrupted their tête-à-tête. So long after midnight, they were unlikely to have any interruptions.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean to give me, a deck of cards?”

  He smiled, sensing victory. Her curiosity was his best ally. “I have it right here.” He patted his breast, frowned and then patted his hip pocket. “No, here.”

  His gesture drew her gaze down to the falls of his unmentionables. He’d left off his waistcoat and consigned his cravat to the floor of his room. Heat built in him and he began to swell as she stared.

  “That too.”

  She blanched, her expression turning uncertain, her eyes still cast down. “But it’s Christmas.”

  One-handed, he flipped the card on the top of the deck back over. If his arousal alarmed her, the movement would distract her attention. “You used to enjoy playing cards with me, love.”

  She continued to stare below his waist. He pushed on the door and she looked up, alarmed, but she had forgotten to hold it tight. “Do not be afraid, love. I’ll leave if you insist.”

  He pushed around her and drew her into the room, shutting the door. He pressed a kiss to her lips. Moisture collected under his arms and the sooner he was rid of his clothes the better.

  He dropped to his knee. “Fanny, love, you would—”

  “What are you doing, Dev?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Trying to present my gift.” At least he was back to “Dev.” That was a good sign. “You may not want it.”

  “Of course I should want it. You are being very odd. I am not a queen requiring genuflection for presentation of a gift.”

  “You are near enough to a queen. It is the only higher rank. I know that I have no title or no expectation of one, since I have five older brothers.” He was perspiring in earnest and botching his presentation. “You should not have interrupted me. I had this all planned.”

  He tossed aside his coat, then had to pick it up to retrieve the ring from the pocket.

  “For heaven’s sake, just give it to me,” whispered Fanny. “You are behaving too strange.”

  Scully closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Fanny, dear heart, you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “Hardly,” she snorted.

  “To me, you are, and—”

  “Tomorrow will be quite busy, Dev, and I—”

  “Stop interrupting.”

  She shifted. “Dev, what are you doing?”

  “Stop talking. I have never done this before and I’m sorry if I’m making a hash of it. You would make me the happiest man if you would agree to be my wife.” The words came out in a white-hot rush, not at all the smooth proposal he planned.

  Silence was his answer. Fanny had gone quite still.

  He held out the ring, needing to fill the gap. “It was my grandmother’s ring. I know it is old, and you like new things, but we could have the stones reset. The sapphire reminded me of your eyes.”

  The ring was extravagant, the huge blue stone encircled by diamonds.

  Another gap stretched in the room. He needed to fill it. “You could give me an answer, you know. There are twenty diamonds. I have been assured they are quite fine specimens.” And he’d told himself he would not insist upon an answer right away.

  “I did not expect this,” she whispered. Her voice sounded tearful. “Why would you . . . you . . . now?”

  “Max said I must,” he answered, and then cringed. Of all the things he should have said that was not it. He stood holding out the r
ing and feeling like an idiot. Perhaps if he kissed her and did not allow her the breath to answer, he could salvage this miserable effort.

  Yet her eyes filled with tears and she stared at the ring in his hand almost as if it were a snake that might bite her.

  “For God’s sake, Fanny, do not cry. You can refuse me.”

  Roxana slowly lowered her arm from where it shielded her face; She saw Max’s extended hand, palm up. Her nerves were shattered, and she was shaking. She stared at his hand, distrusting the offer of assistance.

  She had steeled herself to invade Mr. Breedon’s bedroom and tell him that she had mistaken her way back from the necessary. She’d rehearsed the lie a dozen times in her head. She’d thought it sounded plausible.

  But Max was not so easy to fool. His anger charged the air. His edict chilled her heart. Did he really intend to have his way with her or was he just trying to scare her?

  His hand moved from her foot to curl around her ankle. His other hand grasped her upper arm, and he dragged her back up on the bed.

  He unwrapped her ankle from the tangle of bedding and lifted the covers for her to settle underneath them. She stared at the tented sheets and blankets.

  “You’re cold. Cover up,” he said brusquely, as if she was being a ninny. As if climbing into bed with him were normal. As if she were not in a gnarl of nerves.

  She wasn’t so much cold as frightened, and apprehension made her shake. “I can leave now.”

  “You’re not leaving.” Max grabbed her legs under her knees and thrust her under the sheets. His motion made her nightgown ride up to her thighs, but the covers landed over her, hiding any indecency.

  “Not until we settle this,” he muttered. Kneeling on the bed, he drew off his shirt and undershirt.

  Roxana felt an involuntary gasp leave her lips. She had seen a man without his shirt before. She had seen laborers, but Max had none of the burliness of them. He had more the physique of a statue of antiquity. His musculature stretched smooth and long. His skin fairly gleamed pale gold in the firelight.

  His hands landed on the buttons of his falls. Her gaze jerked to the upside-down horseshoe of his flat stomach, and the line of dark hair that ran down under his waistband. Heat mingled with fear stabbed through her.

  He struggled with his buttons as if they were too tight to wrestle free of their moorings, and Roxana clenched her eyes shut. Other parts of her body clenched, and she drew up her knees. Clearly, Max meant to take advantage of her mistake.

  Her thoughts flew at lightning speed. Max was not whom she intended to trap, but he didn’t want to be married. He was wealthy. Could her plan work with him? He was her friend and she did not want to betray that. And his burst of anger alarmed her.

  Her mouth went dry at the thought of what he would do. That he would do anything surprised her. She had been told of, nay he had demonstrated, a certain correctness in his behavior—although not always with her.

  And a part of her, a sick, depraved part of her, wanted him to kiss her again.

  The mattress lightened, and she peeked one eye open. Max stood beside the bed. He slid his unmentionables down, and the only covering remaining on his body was his thin cotton drawers. They rode low on his hips, the ties dangling over that incredibly large bulge.

  Seemingly unconcerned about his near-nakedness, he crossed the room to the chair where he had been sitting. After draping his clothes over the chair back, he picked up his dressing gown. Then he walked to the fireplace, where he removed a ribbon-tied box from the mantel.

  She should have made a dash for the door, she berated herself.

  He returned and tossed the dressing gown across the foot of the bed. His nearness made her heart gallop. She shut her eyes again.

  The box landed near her face and she flinched.

  “You might as well open that. I had meant to find a private moment to give it to you. Now is as good a time as any.”

  He was giving her a gift? Now? She did not move.

  “Would you like me to open it for you?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He sat on the bed, picked up the box, untied the ribbon and folded back the tissue paper. She could only look at him and the smooth muscles flexing under his skin as he moved.

  “Roxana, shan’t you look?”

  She tried, but as she lowered her gaze to the box, she saw past it to his lap and she couldn’t look away.

  He tossed the box to his nightstand. “They’re kid leather gloves. You can try them on later.”

  Had he bought her gloves because he had seen the darning on hers? That touched her in a way she didn’t expect. She brought her gaze back up to his face. His anger was no longer visible and she searched his eyes for a sign that he had hidden it away to let it fly later, but he watched her with a patient concern.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, and her voice was strange, breathy and raspy.

  He smiled slowly and she felt his smile in every corner of her heart. She closed her eyes, trying to block his effect on her.

  A cool breeze from the covers lifting made her shudder. Then Max slid in beside her. He pushed her knees down and brushed his legs against hers. His body pressed against her side and the heat rising off his skin made her want to push close, except she lay frozen on her back, the blankets wadded in her hands. How could her plan have gone so terribly awry?

  His bare chest touched her shoulder and her skin tingled. His silent nearness forced awareness through her pores. His fingertips grazed her face as he lifted a strand of hair away. His hand cupped around the side of her head, smoothing her hair away from her face. He shifted up and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Relax. We shall be married.”

  No! She did not want to be married. Her eyes flew open. “But—”

  “Which is more than I can say that Breedon would have done.”

  Then Breedon would have been happy to buy her silence. Roxana bit her lip. She had to salvage her plan. Her dreams of an autonomous future with no man to control her and the ability to support her family were on the line. How could she convince Max to give her money? Thinking clearly when her body was coming alive with sensations was impossible.

  Max’s hand skimmed over her hand, urging her to loosen her death grip. He would be furious with her when he learned she wanted only compensation for the loss of her virtue. But what choice did she have? She had to pretend that she wanted him to marry her, and then deal with asking for money in the morning. He would hate her for her trickery.

  He propped his head on his hand, his arm folded beside her head. His gaze weighed on her.

  Why hadn’t he kissed her or touched her or done any of the things Mrs. Porter suggested would happen? He’d taken off most of his clothes, which made her breathless. But then he just lay beside her, doing nothing.

  Or, well, more than nothing. The heat from his body so close to hers chased the chill from her. She could not continue being frightened of his anger, when it had disappeared. She searched his expression for any sign of resentment, but his rage was gone, replaced by a lazy confidence.

  As he stroked his hand over hers, tingles danced over her skin. How could such a circumspect touch make her melt?

  “Are you quite sure you do not need explanation?”

  She shook her head tightly. Mrs. Porter’s explanations had been detailed enough that they shocked her. Yet as her mind raced over the idea of that portion of his anatomy inside her, a shiver rushed through her.

  He smiled slowly. “You are incredibly beautiful, but this notion you have of being a sacrificial virgin shan’t suffice for long. Let go of the covers, Roxy.”

  She forced herself to let go of the covers. “I’m not—”

  “You are. You cannot have expected Breedon to make every move.” He picked up her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “You did expect to have relations with him, did you not?”

  “I thought if I put myself close enough that he would need no more encouragement.” Her voice sounded strange, breathy
and thin.

  He brought her palm to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss there. Nipping at the inside of her wrist, he shifted his fingers between hers as if exploring her fingers was more important than holding her hand. “Mayhap you have not put yourself close enough to me. You could touch me.”

  “I know that.” But she did not reach for him.

  “I’d like you to. Come, Roxana, I am not the only one unduly affected when we are alone together.” He put her hand down to her side, then moved to her other hand and lifted her arm above her head. “There is heat between us.”

  There was more than heat. She had been aware of him in that way ever since the first time she laid eyes on him. But she did not want to taint her desire with the knowledge that she was betraying him. He was the first man she had ever felt a bond of friendship with. She did not want him to hate her, and she did not know that her emotions would survive what she needed to do.

  She wanted to touch him. She wanted to bring her elbows together and shield herself. Caught in a horrible place of indecision, she did nothing.

  Max put his hand in the center of her chest, over her racing heart. “You know, Breedon would not have cared if you found pleasure.”

  Max expected her to take pleasure in their congress? As her chest rose and fell, he traced lazy circles over the upper curves of her breasts. She could have pretended whatever she needed to with Mr. Breedon. But nothing would be a pretense with Max. Her emotions rolled too close to the surface.

  His fingers drifted to the ties of her nightgown and he pulled the bow’s string. “Do you have any bruises or injuries from the sleigh accident? For if you do, now would be the time to tell me.”

  She shook her head.

  He touched the bared skin at her collar and slid his fingertips under the edge of the material. “Did you like the Christmas tree? It is a new thing for us, but I saw one at court last year.”

  She was turning into a quivering mass, and he had not so much as kissed her. And he wanted to talk about the Christmas decorations? Perhaps she had misunderstood how this worked.

  When she did not answer, he continued. “Finding a tree of the right height that had grown evenly was harder than I expected. Of course the snow made it difficult to assess.” His thumb brushed over her breastbone, exploring her cleavage. “Your heart is racing, you know.”